


moments of glad grace

by zulu



Category: House M.D.
Genre: F/M, for:fthpfthpfthp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-11
Updated: 2009-03-11
Packaged: 2017-10-02 10:07:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zulu/pseuds/zulu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dream of the soft look your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	moments of glad grace

**Author's Note:**

> For fthpfthpfthp, for my [DRABBLERAMA: Road Trip Edition challenge](http://queenzulu.livejournal.com/407891.html).

Stacy's not allowed to love the cane. Not even after all these years. Greg, of _course_, takes every liberty. It's unfair that he can poke her from three feet away, or lift the hem of her skirts with the tip. It hurts, when he rages and throws it away, on nights when the pain is bad. But he won't allow her to acknowledge it; he turns away if she even tries to hand it back to him. The surgery lingers between them, and Greg's cane is the most tangible reminder of it. She loves his body, always has. The scars don't matter. She wishes she could do something, anything, for his pain, but she endures it along with him, until it becomes the background of their lives. The cane, though, is always there, always in his hands.

What Greg doesn't know is how sexy she finds it. How, even hipshot, Greg can seem so elegant, leaning just so. Stacy pictures him silhouetted, his head bent, a faraway look on her face. It reminds her of old movies, something in black and white. His hair, fading grey in most lights, would look silver and dark. His eyes would be paler, too, but no less focused or intent. Stacy dresses him in her mind in a tuxedo, shivers as she imagines him. She'd wear something red, maybe strapless, wrap her arms around his neck, feel the hitch in his shoulder where he holds himself higher on the right.

Stacy curls up on the couch next to him, wrapped in an afgan and one of his sweaters, the cuffs falling over her hands, and watches him. They can't dance, not the way they used to, but he is still hers. Tall and strong and fitting just right when they move together. She ignores the television and daydreams. It's silly, after they've been together for so long, but Stacy indulges herself, because why shouldn't she?

Greg eyes her suspiciously after a moment, but there's a hint of a smile in his eyes that she knows is only for her. "What are you looking at?"

"You," she teases. She knows he doesn't believe her, doesn't believe he's attractive. She leans closer to kiss him, rests her head against his chest when his arm circles around her. The cane is on his far side, leaning against the couch, but like this, on a good night, she can forget it's there; she can dream. Her dreams haven't all come true, but she's fought damn hard for the ones that did, and she's so glad, in these moments, to have them.

 

_end_


End file.
